I Could Not Save Him
by A Random Person With a Pen
Summary: John is left alone with his thoughts in the aftermath of the Reichenbach Fall. He ponders upon how much Sherlock really meant to him, and how he failed to express how much he truly cared for the consulting detective.
1. The Color Red

**I do not own BBC Sherlock.**

**I started listening to some really sad movie OSTs, mainly that of _Revenge of the Sith_, specifically "Padme's Ruminations" and "Padme's Destiny" and I thought, "Why not make a Reichenbach Fall one-shot?" And I did. (I also don't own _Revenge of the Sith_ or any of the songs I listed, but I can't help my love for John Williams!)**

**Enjoy.**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

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In John's mind, which had been laden with distant memories, guilt over his own incapability to prevent a fall that could have been prevented, and regret over decisions made in an era that ended far too soon, the worst feeling a human could ever experience occurred in the torso. It wrapped itself around one's lungs, causing the very action of inhaling and exhaling to be tedious, even though the victim was not in respiratory distress and was still breathing subconsciously. It filled the ventricles of one's heart, creating the sensation of having a gaping, bleeding hole in one's chest, even though all of the flesh on the victim of the feeling was still in tact. It even went as far as to consume one's stomach and intestines and filled them with lead, so that walking became a nuisance and eating an impossible chore. The rest of the body was numb, especially the limbs, which made one wonder if they were still attached to one's body. And, in John's mind, this feeling can creep its way into the soul of anyone and can be brought about by anything.

He first experienced it in Afghanistan, and especially during the first few months back in London. In the middle of the boiling sun, the rapid gunfire, and the bloody victims of that gunfire, he knew he had to swallow whatever bile rose up into his throat and press on for the men who needed his medical aid. He saved all of his emotions for the time after the war, which could be defined as the first time he had ever felt the "feeling," which went by many names: sadness, depression, post-traumatic stress, and even anxiety. John lived everyday of that era of his life in darkness, and there were many nights when John contemplated the reasons upon which he was still among the living, another side-effect of the feeling of sadness.

And then Sherlock came, and he changed everything. The night terrors slowly slipped away, and during the day, he finally found some stimulant in finding stimulant for his new flatmate. Even though Sherlock dealt with death being an amateur detective and constantly boasted his sociopath ways, John could honestly say that Sherlock made him feel alive again, and the feeling went away.

But now, it was back, and it was stronger than before. Now, as he sat on the stairs with his head in his hands, his grief loomed over him like the shadow of the Devil himself, for that was the only evil that John could have thought of that would dare to take his brave Sherlock away. Apparently, that Devil had manifested himself inside Jim Moriarty, the only suitable transport in the whole of London. It was a reminder of the dangerous game his flatmate dared to play, and how everyone was either calling Sherlock a liar or mourning over his soul. John wished that the shadow would simply swallow him up, and perhaps maybe then he would see his flatmate again, and then order would be restored, because the two men that needed each other to stay alive would have connected again.

John knew sadness all too well, and, according to the events of the day, so did Sherlock, deep within the walls of his Mind Palace. It lets one sit and wallow in their own cursed existence. There are only three escapes: tell someone how you feel, push it away in the hopes of conquering it another time, or making a drastic decision that will end _all_ of the curses that have been afflicted on the escapee. Sherlock chose one, and he inevitably chose the other, and that was why John had felt the strongest bout of sadness in his life.

_"Goodbye, John." _Those words rang in his ears, getting louder every time they repeated themselves.

_"Sherlock, NO!" _John knew he should have insisted that Sherlock stay on the phone with him; he should have begged! Maybe then he would have been able to talk him off of the the roof. Perhaps they could have hurried back to the flat, spent a lonely evening with cups of tea, and came up with a plan of action for whatever crisis was really happening in Sherlock's mind?

_He spread out his arms and jumped. The bottom of his coat flew open as gravity pulled him towards his inevitable doom. Sherlock pressed his lips together in a thin line, and his eyes were in flinch position, open just enough so that he could see the ground meet his body. His arms were up in the air, as though he was surrendering to all that weighed upon his brilliant mind._

John promised himself he would show more self-control than his sister and his father. Liquid happiness, and some called it, was calling his name, if only he could muster the strength to rise from the stairs.

_Red is often referred to as a color of fire, of the passion that exists in love and within a person's heart. Sherlock's transport's "passion liquid" was now covering the concrete and had begun to seep into the very grains of the stone. John's hand was shaking as he checked Sherlock's pulse. Reality whispered into John's ear, telling him there was no hope that his friend could have survived that jump, and that he was a fool for hanging on to the hope that Sherlock could have hung on to life. After all, his flatmate had lost his little passion for life, and the fuel of his life was beginning to get everywhere._

His Sherlock had been stolen from him, and John also lost the piece of his soul he tied with his flatmate. Sherlock was his strength, his reason, his _life._ The world was still rotating around the sun, but John's was crashing and burning all around him, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. People were walking down the sidewalk outside, going about their normal routine (something Sherlock always frowned upon), yet John was sitting still, watching one part of his life slip from his grasp and the other being planned out. He was certain he was facing years of alcohol, late-night reminiscing, and being followed by the shadow.

"I was the only one he trusted." John could not believe that was his one voice. After all of this time with Sherlock, he had learned to add a little more, oh, assertiveness, perhaps? "He let me inside his life, and I failed miserably, because I could not save him. And now, my friend is... dead."

He started to cry. It was silent; the only indication that he was crying was the shuddering of his shoulders.


	2. Edgar Allan Poe

**Per request of a very special Guest, I decided to expand the previous one-shot. It is now a one-shot series! Yes, you all may have as much character angst as your hearts desire. I do not know if there is going to be an update everyday, but I will indeed be working on it everyday (because outside of the fandom lifestyle, there is no such thing as "life").**

**I do not own BBC Sherlock, nor do I hold any stake in the poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, those are the actual words of _Annabel Lee, _and no, I do not own them. I was simply quoting them. Also, I don't exactly is an actual Poe compilation book exists with that title, but if it does, I also don't own the rights to that. So don't sue me. **

**Enjoy. Please follow, favorite, or review. (You don't have to if you don't want to. I'm just saying.)**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

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John had fallen into a comatose-like state, only arousing himself and leaving his chair to use the lavatory or fix himself a cup of tea the way Sherlock preferred his. He found it peculiar that silence, a seemingly fragile item, could take such a hold over a space and condemn it to dullness. With Sherlock gone, it was as though a leak had suddenly been filled, and all of the water, that thirst-quenching water, had seeped into the carpet and then evaporated as if the leak was never there. It was as though a set of stereo speakers had been blasting joyful music loud enough so the entire block could hear, and then the music suddenly stopped, and all those who had stopped to listen were forced to carry on with their routine. It was like John had read an exciting epic that suddenly ended without any sort of closure. He and Sherlock had done everything together through thick and thin, but it all ended, and Sherlock still jumped to his death.

As he sat and pondered upon what the hell he was supposed to do next- if he could even find the courage to continue on, that is, John's eyes fell upon his former flatmate's chair, so posh and modern and black. Everything the consulting detective owned seemed to be black or pristine, however untidy he was, or was influenced by an aesthetic of darkness. And now, all of Sherlock's expensive things sat around him- a constant reminder, even though John was constantly thinking about Sherlock's jump. Especially that god-awfully organized bookcase filled with various texts.

John pushed himself up form his chair and grabbed his cane; that damned limp had returned, all thanks to the git who healed it. He sighed as he made his way over to the bookcase and picked out the first book he saw. He read the title aloud, _"A Collection of Edgar Allan Poe's Stories and Poems." _This came as no surprise to him; of course his darkness-loving flatmate would have an interest in fine poetry, especially that of Poe. John could faintly remember reading Poe works in school during a brief unit in American literature, which alluded him as much as classic British literature. Seeing that there was nothing better to do, John made his way back to his seat with the book.

There was a red ribbon sewn into the book binding, and this ribbon had been situated towards the end of the book. He opened the book to the page the ribbon was marking, the pages feeling smooth beneath his fingers. Sherlock had previously been reading in the poetry section, specifically the poem of _Annabel Lee._

_"It was many and many a year ago,_

_in a kingdom by the sea,_

_That a maiden lived whom you may know_

_By the name of Annabel Lee;_

_And this maiden she lived with no other thought_

_Than to love and be loved by me."_

John was slightly confused. Yes, the writing was excellent, but why would Sherlock be entertaining himself with a poem of love? John thought he hated the idea of love?

_"I was a child and she was a child,_

_In this kingdom by the sea,_

_But we loved with a love that was more than love-_

_I and my Annabel Lee-_

_With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven _

_Coveted her and me._

_"And this was the reason that, long ago,_

_In this kingdom by the sea,_

_A wind blew out of a cloud by night_

_Chilling my Annabel Lee;_

_So that her high-born kinsmen came_

_And bore her away from me,_

_To shut her up, in a sepulchre_

_In this kingdom by the sea."_

It was starting to make more sense in John's mind. Of course, it would be a poem about love and death.

_"The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,_

_Went envying her and me;_

_Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,_

_In this kingdom by the sea)_

_That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling_

_And killing my Annabel Lee."_

He had to stop and gather himself before he continued. It was not the work of Poe that was making him so emotional, though lovely as it was. He could attest to the words and sympathize with the narrator. John truly loved Sherlock. Not in the way that most assumed, but he did love him. Sherlock made him feel alive! He was not cold or heartless in the least, though he liked to proclaim himself to be so. And now he was gone, and John was faced with the task of preparing the funeral arrangements for his best friend. John did not care what others thought of his friend after his jump; he was most certainly not a fraud, and John would believe in him to the bitter, yet thankfully received end.

_"But our love it was stronger by far than the love_

_Of those who were older than we-_

_Of many far wiser than we-_

_And neither the angels in Heaven above_

_Nor the demons down under the sea_

_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul_

_Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,_

_"For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams_

_Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;_

_And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes_

_If the beautiful Annabel Lee;_

_And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side_

_Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride_

_In her sepulchre there by the sea-_

_In her tomb by the sounding sea._


	3. Urges

**Hellooooo... _Just a word of warning, this chapter does contain some suicidal/self-harm themes, although they are merely mentioned and not acted at to keep the "T" rating. However, if such things trigger you, please refrain from reading this. And, if you should happen to feel this way currently, I encourage you to talk to someone you care about._**

**Sorry for taking so long. SOME PEOPLE decided to wait till the week before finals to teach all of the most important stuff and assign the extensive reports... And then I had the finals and the HSA. Ugh... Again, sorry. **

**I do not own BBC Sherlock. **

**Follow, favorite, review, simply read it, or click back onto the homepage. Whatever suits you.**

**SuperWhoLockness: It's my favorite piece too, aside from Tell-tale Heart.**

**Enjoy.**

**-A Random Person With a Pen**

* * *

The funeral was tomorrow. John knew there was no way he was going to get any sleep that night, so he did what he had done during the past two nights- watch crap, late-night telly while contemplating what he was going to say at the funeral. He had never been one to do well speaking in front of other people. The art of oration was as foreign to him as the art of deduction. To John, deduction became a little easier after he had seen Sherlock do it so many times, and he had actually begun to pick up on the signs that Sherlock was a master at finding. Speaking about that very man was another game- no pun intended- altogether. There would be an increased level of difficulty speaking to a group of people about Sherlock's memory, given that John was one of few feeble humans that actually saw behind Sherlock's antisocial mask.

What should he even say? His devotion to his work would be an obvious topic to touch on. That would be the reason a great majority of the visitors would be there: to pay homage to the world's only consulting detective, even though the media had practically turned the world against him. Sherlock wanted to be remembered as a sociopath that was always able to get the job done when even the best could not- not a man who fabricated every case he ever solved in order to climb his way onto the front page of every newspaper. Now, he was most certainly on the front page of every newspaper at every stand and every market, but for all of the wrong reasons.

Perhaps the most blatant thing Sherlock was going to be remembered for in the eyes of the people was going to be the most difficult one to discuss?

_Maybe I should just give him a eulogy much like everyone else in the world? _John thought. _I could just say that he was a great man, say some very sentimental stuff that everyone hears at every funeral, step down, and then go home? _He absentmindedly shook his head. _No! You owe Sherlock much more than that. You owe him more than you can ever repay. He deserves a eulogy tailored just for him. _

His half-empty whiskey glass was sitting on the table adjacent to him. He picked it up, fingers clutching the seductive glass as though it was his only tie to life. It seemed to so easy to succumb to his family's way of coping. For a moment, John wondered if Sherlock was able to keep a secret stash of coke around the flat that managed to pass beneath the radar of both John and Lestrade's drug busts.

_Maybe it was as he said? Maybe it would help me think? _And that was what finally brought him up out of his chair- to search for narcotics.

John opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom, and the scent that filled his nostrils brought tears to his eyes, but not in the way that scents do when they are foul. No, the scent was welcoming to John. It was a combination of light cigarette smoke and designer-issued cologne. The bed was half-way made; the sheets normally fell lazily across the bed when its normal occupant had left to conduct his sentiment-free life. Books, mostly nonfiction and scribbled with notes of fact contradiction, sat open across the nightstand. The closet door was open, Sherlock's designer suits and dressing gowns visible even from where John was standing on the threshold.

"Oh my... god."

John collapsed onto the floor. There was no way he was going to be able to give that eulogy. There was no way he was ever going to leave the flat again, even though it remained a testament to Sherlock's glory more so than the past newspaper headlines, back from when the media actually liked him, and the grave marker that was going to be placed over his body. John knew he was crying, but then again, he knew that was all he had really been doing the past few days other than reflecting.

Something snapped. Something inside of him fell further out of place. There was no other thought in the world- no other consideration besides his new-found goal. Sherlock did have drugs somewhere in the flat, and the first room that John was going to get out of the way was his bedroom. _He had to have placed a secret compartment or hiding spot in here somewhere, right? _the ex-army doctor reasoned. _I have never done something like this before, so they can easily say it was an accident and that I was just trying to cope with Sherlock being gone, and in a way, I am. _He shuffled through the nightstand drawers in search for a hole or a switch or something- any sign of Sherlock's cleverness. _And I could drink more whiskey with it! Yes, I could do just that. Maybe Sherlock will make a comment on my methods when I rejoin him again. _He looked beneath and behind the bed. _Goddammit! Where did the git hide his stash! Ugh, he proves the Yard incompetent even when he's dead. Honestly, I wonder if Lestrade is even going to consider my death to be something more than an accident. _

And then the rambling stopped. And John was left a shadow of his recent impulses. He was no longer driven by the memories to make brash decisions, but now they fueled his forever-burning fires of self-loathing. He thought about all of the people- Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Maybe even Mycroft- who were suffering over Sherlock's death, though he knew he could prove that he was suffering more than they were. He could not add to the suffering by making Mrs. Hudson lose both of her boys...

And he could not take the route that Sherlock did. He slipped everything back into its place, though the room still looked like the dictionary definition of chaos. Sherlock would not want John to follow in his footsteps. Sherlock would have wanted him to reconcile with himself, to use his reasoning to avoid bad choices. John was aware he could talk himself out of suicide even though he was ineffective with other people.


End file.
